Free Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy by Cas Peace Page A

into the tong’s wooden jaws and picked it up.
     

     
When the lurching, spinning darkness began to lift, Taran’s first impression was that he was too close to the fire. His skin was burning and he tried to move away from the heat. He felt hands on him, holding him down, and he struggled, because he really was too close to that fire.
Abruptly, he heard loud voices. Someone was yelling in his ear. He tried to shout, “Shut up,” but his throat wouldn’t open. Dispassionately, he thought he sounded like a strangled pig.
     
Then a large quantity of icy water dumped over him and the shock made him yell. He opened his eyes and found both Rienne and Cal staring down at him, she with an empty bucket in her hands.
     
“That’s better,” he heard Cal say. “I think he’s coming back.”
     
Rienne said, “Thank the gods. I really didn’t know what else to do.”
     
The words had no impact on Taran. His head was ringing and his ears were full of water. He tried to rise and felt Rienne holding him up.
     
“Taran, can you hear me?” he heard her ask. He considered that, not really sure what it meant.
     
“He’s not fully conscious,” she said, her voice sounding oddly muffled. “Get him into bed, Cal, and get these wet things off him. I’ll give him something to help him sleep and perhaps he’ll be better when he wakes.”
     
Taran was aware of being carried to his room and couldn’t help wondering why Cal had turned white. His skin, hair, clothes, even his eyelashes were white. Considering how dark the young man’s skin usually was, this struck Taran as irresistibly funny. He tried to laugh, the strangled pig sounding even worse. But the effort was too much and he slipped into darkness.
     

     
Cal helped Rienne strip Taran’s clothing. The healer wrapped Taran in the coverlet and gathered his sodden clothes, which were as smothered in white plaster dust as Cal was.
“Here,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “take these to the scullery.”
     
Cal took the sopping bundle and walked unsteadily out of the room. Rienne stayed a moment, looking down at Taran. She was genuinely fond of him and hated seeing him like this.
     
Sighing, she left him and made her way to the scullery. The last thing she wanted to do today was wash a load of chalky clothes, but it seemed she had little choice. On the way, she passed the door to the collapsed and ruined cellar where Cal and Taran had been trapped for two hours. Her lips pursed as she thought how fortunate the two men had been in their escape.
     
When she entered the tiny scullery, she saw Cal slumped in a heap on the floor, tears welling from his eyes.
     
“Oh, Cal.” She flew to his side, holding him quietly until the tears subsided. She took his face in her hands and made him look at her.
     
“This has gone far enough, do you hear? If the Hodgekisses next door hadn’t heard that ceiling come down, I don’t know what might have happened to you. Paulus had to break the door down. The cellar’s a ruin and the floor up here’s none too safe, either. What on Earth did you think you were doing?”
     
“Trying to move the Staff,” mumbled Cal. “We were going to take it to the garrison.”
     
“Oh, you’re going then, are you? Well, for one thing, that damned Staff isn’t going anywhere, it’s totally buried. And for another, the two of you are going nowhere without me. Not that either of you is fit to travel at the moment. Look at you, you’re covered in plaster dust. I’d better heat some water for a bath.”
     
She bustled off, leaving Cal in a heap. How, she wondered in exasperation, had they gotten themselves into this?
     

Chapter Seven
     
Later that evening, Taran woke from his drugged sleep. As he came to, it struck him that these disasters were happening far too frequently. Enveloped in shame, he decided enough was enough.
Tears formed in his eyes—he had put his friends in terrible danger. Before, he’d been a fool and failure. Now he